Lorne in Vegas
by mnfowler
Summary: Lorne wakes up dead in Las Vegas. A seemingly self-contradictory feat he is uniquely qualified to manage. While the original cast of "CSI" investigates his murder, Lorne conducts his own parallel investigation.
1. Chapter 1

Am I Blue

The Caesar's Palace maid knocked, but there was no answer. She used her key to open the door.

"Hello? Anyone in here?" she called. There was no answer, so she entered the room with towels piled so high in her arms that she could not see over them. This was not usually a problem. She was familiar with the layout of every room. Besides, if someone was in the room, innocently naked or curled up with a hooker, she would prefer not to see it. "Just going to put these towels in the bathroom," she said, still talking as an insurance policy in case someone was in the room. Balancing the towels with one hand for an instant, she opened the bathroom door and went in. She had felt something wrapped around the stem of the door knob. It was hard like a shirt hanger, but thinner and unmoving. She could not see what it was, so she ignored it for the moment. Moving with practiced speed and efficiency, she nested the fresh towels on their racks and gathered the used towels. Damp, they were draped low and loosely in her arms. She would let herself take in the room on the way out, whatever might greet her eyes. Less worried now that there might be someone in the room, she pushed the door open with her foot and was immediately greeted with a sight that made her let out a scream.

A man's body lay on the bed between her and the window drapes. He was staring glassily at the ceiling. Even more frighteningly, his skin was mostly green, even though his face seemed rather blue. There was a long wire around his neck with one end wrapped around the doorknob to the bathroom and the other tied to the TV remote on the night table between the bed and the drapes.

* * *

"Yeah," said Warrick Brown, examining the night table. "Nothing in these hotel rooms is ever as securely nailed down as the TV remote."

"It's bolted down," Gil Grissom corrected him as he watched Catherine Willows dust the doorknob for prints. The bathroom door was half way open. With his eyes, he followed the wire from the knob to the victim's neck, then to the remote.

"Do you mind?" asked Willows, not bothering to turn her head toward him. "You're blocking my light."

"Actually," said Grissom, "it might be worth noting that although the vic was paying for the light, the killer left it on, and now it's the hotel's."

"That was inconsiderate of the killer," said Nick Stokes from underneath the victim's bed.

"I wouldn't cry too much. The casino can afford the electricity," said Warrick Brown.

"Not simply inconsiderate," Grissom answered Nick. "I'm not sure why he did it, but I think the lights were deliberately left on."

"Finding any suspicious dust bunnies, Nick?" asked Sara Sidle. Wearing latex gloves, she was going through the victim's luggage.

"No, the staff at Caesar's Palace actually cleans under the bed," replied Nick. He paused before adding, "Not sure that makes for much of an advertisement."

Captain Jim Brass walked into the room and peered at Lorne curiously, but he was careful not to step too close to the bed for fear of disturbing evidence. "What do you make of the green skin?" he asked.

Grissom turned and studied Lorne carefully. "Warrick, when you have a moment, take an epithelial sample from the vic and rush it over to Nellis. Ask for Colonel McNutt, and see that you hand it to him personally."

"Will do."

"So, you think he's an alien?" asked Brass.

"Alien? Hah. There are no aliens, Jim."

"Then what do you make of this foreign passport?" asked Sara.

The passport showed a smiling, green-faced Lorne. Grissom squinted at it and began working his mouth silently. Finally he sighed and said, "I can't pronounce the name on this passport."

Brass said, "The hotel register says that the occupant was named Lorne, no last name, like Cher."

"That's almost poetic coming from you, Brass," said Sara. "I mean, adding the reference to Cher."

"No," said Brass. "On the hotel's register it says—and I quote: 'Room 502, Lorne—No Last Name, Like Cher'."

"Interesting." Grissom stroked his chin. Then he said, "Watch out Catherine." Willows sat back on her heels as Grissom closed the door to the bathroom. As the wire became taut, Lorne's body sat up in bed.

"Was the door to the bathroom closed?" asked Grissom.

Willows answered, "The maid discovered the body, and, yes, she admitted to opening the bathroom door."

"Don't ask," said Brass. "It's screwy, but I believe she didn't see the body before she opened it."

* * *

Later that day, Grissom responded to an urgent pager message from Dr. Al Robbins.

"Don't tell me. It's the Lorne case," said Grissom, swinging open the door to the morgue. "What did you get from the autopsy?"

"Well, you see the wire on the table?"

"Yes, that's the wire used to strangle the vic, but… where's the body? Did some military types come and take him."

"Military? No, were you expecting them?"

"No, never mind," said Grissom. "What happened as far as you know?"

"I'm not sure. I unwrapped the wire from around the victim's neck, I turned around to get my scalpel, and when I turned back, he was gone."

"Gone? Where did he go?"

"All I know," said Robbins, "is when I looked around, the door was still swinging back and forth as if someone had just left in a hurry."

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" asked Grissom.

"Just that my camel hair overcoat and identification badge are missing. Where are you going?"

"To check the video from the camera trained on people leaving the building!" Grissom called as he raced out of the room. The door swung back and forth after he left.


	2. Chapter 2

Kitty Box

Lorne entered the Kitty Box, coming in from a cool October night. He took in the room. It was one of the many smaller venues that tourists, visualizing big, glitzy casino-hotels, would not think of as being part of Las Vegas; nevertheless, a lot of them wandered into these places sooner or later. Some of these joints were arcades or frowzy restaurants. Others were like this dive—a gentleman's club that was dark enough to obscure its smallness as well as it's crying need for some paint and repairs. The only thing that all these joints had in common was a row or two of slot machines.

The Kitty Box also had a nude dancer on a little stage behind and slightly above the bar. It was the only well-lit spot in the room. The dancer swung round and round on a metal pole, undulating to a Madonna hit.

The lanky man with long, dark brown hair who was tending bar ignored the throbbing canned music and hummed Annie Lenox's "Sweet Dreams" to himself while he toweled down the counter. Lorne hardly had to read him to know that the bartender was a vampire—actually a bit of a hungry one. Not that there was any immediate call for alarm on the part of the few patrons at the far end of the bar and in the booths. The barkeep was nursing a drink that looked like a Bloody Mary, but Lorne knew better—and there was probably more where that came from stored beneath the bar.

Before sliding onto a stool right in front of the bartender, Lorne buttoned the top button of the camel hair overcoat that covered his otherwise under-clad body. Aside from the coat and his under shorts, all Lorne had on were a pair of running shoes and some ill-fitting, calf-length dress socks that he had found in the car parked in the space reserved for the coroner. Keys in a pocket of the overcoat had fit the ignition lock perfectly.

"Good evening," Lorne said, trying his best to seem friendly.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender.

"Scotch and soda, and don't go near the ice."

The vampire served him and said matter-of-factly, "We don't see many of your kind in here."

"My kind?"

"Demons, I mean—no offense intended."

"None taken," said Lorne, offering what he hoped was an ingratiating smile. He glanced up at the nude dancer. The bartender was watching her, too, as he sipped his drink. Lorne noticed that the vampire's blood-drink did feature a wedge of lemon. "I thought a dancer named Justine worked here," Lorne said casually.

The vampire savored the blood on his tongue before he answered: "What you see is what you get."

"Maybe she comes in on the next shift," Lorne persisted. "When does that start?"

"When I leave," said the vampire.

Lorne's patience was beginning to wear thin. Someone had tried to kill him, and now the police were looking for a green demon wearing _nada_ but the coroner's overcoat—a description of Lorne to a tee. "Hey, I'm not asking for the moon here," he said. "Just wondering when Justine comes in."

"Well, let's see. Unless the police academy has drastically changed its policy of only accepting humans, you're not a cop; so why should I tell you anything?"

"It might be in your interest to know that the woman I'm looking for has killed a few of your kind," said Lorne.

"What kind is that, now?"

Lorne leaned forward so that only the two of them could hear. "Vampires."

The bartender smiled slowly and said, "I'll try keeping that in mind—in case I ever meet someone by the name of Justine." He eyed Lorne. "You're no friend of Justine's, are you?"

"If I were," said Lorne, "why would I have warned you?"

The bartender smiled more warmly. "So, you don't like vampires, but you like this Justine less," he mused.

"Something like that," said Lorne, "although, actually, one of my best friends is a vampire. Ah—I didn't mean that to come out so patronizing."

"No offense taken. My name's Andreas." They shook hands as Lorne introduced himself. "How did you know Justine works here?" Andreas asked.

"You just told me," said Lorne. "I've been to several dives in the Frontier Street area 'cause that's all Justine told me when I saw her last night at Caesars. You see, I came to Vegas to check out the lounge scene. I once had my own club in Los Angeles."

"Once had?"

"A long story. Let's just say that one of Justine's associates had something to do with its demise. I don't really have a beef with her about that, but she and her associate did do some pretty nasty things to that friend of mine who's a vampire. So it was a little tense when we ran into each other at Caesars."

"So how come you're looking for her? You want to kill her?"

"Not before I find out how and why she tried to kill _me_."

"When did this happen?"

"Last night. After I left her in the lounge. I went up to my room, went to bed, and the next thing I know I'm on a slab in the morgue with this pudgy guy in a white coat about to cut my chest open."

"Geez," Andreas said. "Wait a minute, You don't remember her trying to kill you? You must be a sound sleeper."

"Not so much, really."

"Well, look, I'm not defending Justine. I might even have a taste of her myself one of these nights, but how do you know she tried to kill you? You admit you have other enemies."

"Yeah, but none in Las…," Lorne's face froze before the last word escaped his lips.

"What?"

"The lounge act! Of course, how could I forget?"

"What lounge act?"

Lorne recounted the events of the previous night:

The lounge act had been a comic named Orlando Oswald, a graying, bearded, man with a paunch, who absent-mindedly picked lint from his dark sport coat as he paced on the stage before his audience. Justine and Lorne had just noticed each other as they sat at adjacent tables.

"So you wound up in Vegas, too," said Justine.

"With a little help from your friends," replied Lorne.

"Look, sorry about that. That wasn't my idea."

"But you didn't stop them." he said. "Look, we're in a new town. Maybe we can start over."

"That would be cool with me," she said.

"Good," said Lorne.

"You just got here?" she asked.

"Just booked a room in this hotel. You?"

"I work in a dive on Frontier Street."

"Is my act interrupting you two love birds?" asked Oswald.

"Not at all," said Lorne. "Please continue."

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," said Oswald, glaring particularly at Lorne, "the department of motor vehicles wants to jerk my license. They say I can't drive because I periodically lose control of my right arm." Oswald's right hand dropped his microphone. He picked it up with his left. "OK, but I can still drive with my other arm." He dropped the microphone again, then picked it up with both hands. "They claim these spasms are so painful that I might lose control." He paused. "Only the excruciating ones do that."

_Bah-dah-dumb_, thought Lorne. Only a few drunks were laughing, and Lorne was not sure they were listening to the alleged jokes.

"I know what you're thinking," Oswald continued unperturbed. "'Oswald, you need a reality check'. I say, what good is a reality check if you can't put it in the bank?"

One drunk did seem to be listening. "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" He called.

"That's an old one," said Oswald. "The answer is 'practice'."

"Well'at's what you need, pal," said the grinning drunk. "And lots of it."

"Practice makes perfect—how many times have I heard that before?" chuckled Oswald. "You're as helpful as a newborn mosquito during a malaria epidemic."

The comic did not seem at all flustered, Lorne noted, even if his retorts seemed lame. Lorne turned to see how the drunk would respond. To his surprise, the drunk was not responding in any conventional sense of the term. His arms were out to his sides quivering rapidly. his back was arched as if he were about to take off. He was, in fact, hopping onto the seat of his chair and thence onto the table which teetered dangerously yet surprisingly did not fall over. From deep within the man's body, a high pitched hum began to build until it became a disturbingly familiar buzz. To Lorne it was immediately reminiscent of a Pylean dragonfly (not the same-nor as benign—as a dragonfly in this dimension), but it was also like the sound of a mosquito, only much louder as if Oswald's heckler were becoming a very big mosquito. Not for the first time, Lorne and Justine glanced at each other in shared puzzlement. The audience laughed nervously.

Lorne looked at Oswald, wondering whether he was responsible for this transformation. The mask of concentration directed toward the heckler combined with the mirthless smile on Oswald's face told Lorne that he was. Was Oswald a hypnotist?, Lorne wondered. He turned again toward the mosquito-man only to see that no man was left. Every eye in the room now seemed to be looking around for the missing heckler, but he was not to be seen. Lorne heard the faint buzzing of an insect go past him and as the Doppler Effect diminished the sound, he caught sight of a tiny creature spiraling toward the stage.

Oswald slapped his palms together in front of him. "Sic semper hecklerus," he said.

It dawned on Lorne then that Oswald was a master magician. What puzzled Lorne was why Oswald persisted in trying to make it as a comic instead of a magician. Why use magic as an adjunct to his comedy routines rather than the other way around? It must have been vanity that compelled him to keep going for the laughs and, failing that, to punish his detractors with vicious tricks. And who would dare assert that they had seen him turn a man into a bug and then kill him? So it was that Oswald continued making jokes that only those who had not seen what he had done—or who had no sense of humor to begin with—could laugh at.

As for Oswald's routine, Lorne had begun to deconstruct it already. He knew how this type of second-rate comic operated. His A material—most of which was stolen from George Burns, Steve Martin and other superior talents—had done its trick. Having hit his stride with an audience primed with alcohol, he brought out his B material because, at this point, he knew they were giddy enough to laugh at anything.

"You're a fabulous audience," Oswald said. "I love you, and not only I love you, but the hotel loves you—as long as you keep spending money." It was not that funny, but they laughed nervously anyway. "Money," Oswald said. Then he sang an old pop tune—softly, without pushing it too hard, because he could not really sing, "Money, money, money—mo-ney…." He repeated the refrain three times. Suddenly a powerful impression struck Lorne. As usual, it came like a stray television signal interrupting the main signal of his everyday awareness—but it was loud and clear. Lorne could read Oswald's intent, which was to rob the casino using magicks.

Ordinarily, Lorne would have gotten the entire picture of how Oswald meant to do it, but just as suddenly as Lorne had received its image, the telepathic signal from Oswald shut down. Worse, Lorne realized that it was shut down because the comic knew someone was reading him. Oswald scanned the room and met Lorne's eyes with a powerful gaze. The comic seemed to make a mental note before returning to his routine.

Afflicted by a case of the willies, Lorne quickly excused himself, having forgotten about the unfinished business he had with Justine. After waking up in autopsy, though, he believed that Justine had had unfinished business with him—or perhaps she simply did not want Lorne telling Angel or Wesley—or other of her myriad enemies back in L.A. —just where she could be found. But now Lorne was not so sure about this theory of the crime.

"Orlando Oswald?" Andreas was saying. The awe in the vampire's voice betrayed respect and perhaps even a tinge of fear. Lorne felt queasy. Not many creatures can inspire fear—even a little fear—in a vampire. More powerful vampires could. Slayers certainly could. Certain demons and….

"He's a sorcerer," said Andreas.

"That figures," sighed Lorne, "and a powerful one no doubt."

"Let's just say that, fortunately for him, he's a better sorcerer than he is a comic."

"Well, yeah."

"And it's funny that I never thought of this before," said Andreas, "but I remember seeing those signs on top of the taxis advertising his act at the Karnak when the Karnak was robbed, then he was at the Reve when that place was hit. Damnedest thing, because most casino robberies never get started. Those that do, the robbers are caught before they can get to the door. Security here is virtually foolproof unless…"

"Unless you have some tricks up your sleeve—and I'll bet Oswald has some doozies."

"So you're wasting your time looking for Justine," Andreas said. Just then, a new customer took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. "Don't go anywhere," Andreas told Lorne before looking after the customer. Lorne stared at his drink.

"Looking for me?" a familiar voice asked. Lorne swung around to face Justine. She was not dressed to the nines as she had been last night. Now she wore a sweatshirt and jeans. She carried a black and lilac gym bag on a strap over her shoulder.

"I was, but not anymore." He turned back to face his glass.

"You took off like a bat out of hell last night," said Justine. "You know, for a guy who wants to make it in this town, you almost missed an opportunity. You still might miss it if you don't go back to Caesars and find Orlando Oswald." Lorne turned back to her with what must have been a surprised look. "That's right, green boy. I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this, but that comic must have noticed you—and not just because you walked out on his act. He came over to the table afterward and was pumping me about the unusual guy with the green skin and shiny silver suit. He wanted to know who you were and where you came from and whether you had an act. And by the way, nice coat, but didn't they have one your size?"

"What else did Oswald say, exactly?"

He said… and what's with those pools of black fabric clinging around your ankles? I thought you dressed loud but stylishly. Now you look like…."

"What did he say, Justine?"

"Let me see if I can get the exact phrase he used. He said, 'He has a real quality about him'. At first I thought he was really trying to hit on me, but I think he's genuinely interested in you. Watch your step, though. Not that it's any of my business where your—or his—proclivities lie, but he could be gay. Maybe just likes those little horns in your forehead."

"Did you tell him my name and that I was staying in the hotel?"

"Yes, but when I saw him again later, as I was leaving Caesars, he told me you had checked out of the hotel. Now, what's the matter with you?"

"Justine, I'm sorry I misjudged you," Lorne said as he stood up and drained his glass. He then planted a kiss on Justine's lips before she could react. She recovered and shoved him, but Lorne was already walking away.

"Hey!" she said. "You may not be vulnerable to a stake through the heart, but I'll bet you're not that hard to kill."

"Don't count on it, baby," said Lorne as he went out the door.

Outside, Lorne started toward the car he had "borrowed" from the coroner, but he saw from a block away that it was surrounded by police. Uttering the proverbial barnyard epithet, Lorne ducked into an alley. He stopped after a few feet and looked back to see whether anyone had followed him from the street.

"Lorne," said a male voice.

"Ahh!" Lorne turned again to meet the piercing eyes of Andreas. The vampire calmly stood a foot in front of him. It was as if he had reached the alley before Lorne.

"How did you get…," Lorne began. "Never mind. Don't sneak up on people like that—unless, of course, you intend to bite them!"

"So, are we taking my car or yours?" asked Andreas.

Lorne grabbed Andreas by the lapels. "You've got a car?"


	3. Chapter 3

Dust to Dust

Andreas' car careened along the strip, nearly hitting several other cars as well as a drunken pedestrian who miraculously dodged in front of them without spilling an over-sized novelty drink.

"You sure you want to come along?" Lorne asked, watching nervously as the vampire drove.

"Hey," said Andreas, "what's the point of living forever if you never take risks?" Andreas paused. "So, basically, Justine told Oswald who you are and where to find you."

"Yeah."

"And you kissed her. I woulda drained her dry on the spot."

"That, my dear Andreas, is one of the many differences between you and me. Besides, she thought he wanted to help my career."

"Career as what? Don't tell me you're a stand up. Last thing this town needs is another comic."

"I sing."

"Oh. I stand corrected."

Their car pulled into the parking garage at Caesars. As they made their way to the lobby, Lorne explained his plan of going up to his former room.

"How're you getting in without a key? At the morgue, didn't they take your clothes and everything in your pockets?" asked Andreas.

"Pyleans have storage cavities you don't have."

"Where?"

"You don't want to know."

"Well," mused Andreas, "I'm going to wander through the hotel, maybe catch up with Oswald and keep an eye on him. Whadya say we meet right back here in an hour?"

"OK. Just don't get distracted and lose track of time."

Andreas straightened up indignantly. "Hey, I'm no tourist. I don't gamble."

"I am referring to the fact that you're a hungry vampire."

"Don't bust my chops if I do what comes naturally," Andreas said and walked away through an archway guarded by a huge statue of a man in a toga.

"Would it make any difference if I did?" Lorne asked himself.

* * *

Lorne stepped out of the elevator and went down the corridor toward his former room. He stopped at the door and looked about to make sure that no one was watching. Then he bent his knees and reached under the skirt of the coat. He brought out the key card and dipped it in the lock. The door clicked and Lorne opened it. He flipped on the light. The room was very much as he remembered but for the remarkable exception of the wiry, gray-haired man in steel-framed glasses resting comfortably on the bed. Lorne noted that the fellow was reading a book with the word "entomology" in its title.

"My name's Gil Grissom. Mind if I call you Lorne?"

"Not at all."

"I thought you'd come back to the scene of the crime," said Grissom.

"How did you figure that?" asked Lorne, expecting that he would need to do some fancy talking to get out of this situation.

"There was no card key among your possessions," Grissom said. "I guessed—evidently correctly—that you had it somewhere."

"Look," said Lorne, "I suppose you have a lot of questions, but, honestly, I don't have a lot of answers. I swear."

Grissom fixed a steady gaze on him. Lorne found it unsettling. Finally the human said, "Exactly what planet are you from?"

* * *

Andreas cruised the aisles of one of the many, pricy gift shops in the casino. He came up behind a young brunette who was closely studying a miniature Zen rock-and-sand garden. She was all but scratching her head when Andreas helpfully interjected, "If you'll take that little rake there—yes, that's right. Now, just draw it gently, making curves around the little rocks—that's right, like that. You've got it!"

"And the point is?" the brunette asked as she dutifully raked the sand until shapely ridges wove around and between the rocks.

"Now use your imagination," he said as she looked at him quizzically. "Look at it. What does it remind you of?"

She concentrated and finally said, "It sort of looks like a lake. Or the ocean. See? The sand is the water and the stones are islands."

"Good. That's the idea," said Andreas.

"What do you see?" she asked him.

"Me? To me, the sand is a thick cloud cover and the stones are the peaks of mountains poking through the clouds."

She smiled seductively at him and said, "Man, would I like to try whatever you're on."

Andreas smiled back at her.

* * *

"So, what planet?" asked Grissom.

"Uh, of course you've never heard of it, but it's called Pylea."

"Pylea," Grissom repeated knowingly. Then said, "Where's that?"

"Without a star chart, I couldn't begin to tell you, but let's just say it's in a solar system far, far away."

"Well, I have a star chart back at my office," Grissom began.

"Why am I not surprised by that?" said Lorne.

"We can look at it later, and you can show me. Can you tell me why you came to our planet?"

"Honestly, I came for economic reasons. Things aren't so good in—on Pylea."

"They're better here?"

"Well, when I left home several, uh, light years ago, they were. Now I stay just because I like the music."

"You're a musician?"

"Singer."

"Oh," said Grissom. He frowned and looked away.

"Why is everyone in Vegas so negative?" asked Lorne.

* * *

Andreas took the brunette by the hand and drew her after him into the shadow of the potted palm. He had found this spot yesterday on an upper tier of the casino. A shop had recently closed, and while the space would not be closed long, it was relatively dark here for the time being, especially in the shadow of the tropical plant in front of the abandoned shop. Andreas knew that someone might walk by in four or five minutes, but he would be finished by then.

He kissed her mouth and cheeks and worked his way down to her throat. She threw back her head and willingly offered him free reign. Her blood pounded beneath his lips. Andreas put on his game face and opened his mouth wide, ready for the kill. Suddenly he heard footsteps racing quickly toward him. He looked up in time to see Justine, dressed in black leather coat and pants, with a crossbow in one hand and a bandolier full of stakes across her torso.

* * *

Lorne was explaining that "on his planet" creatures like him could not necessarily be killed by strangulation or beheading.

"So, what do you know about your, ah, attempted murder?" Grissom asked.

"I can't prove it, but I think Orlando Oswald tried to kill me."

"You mean the comic?" asked Grissom.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion, but, yes. I don't know how he did it, but he must've put that wire around my neck while I was asleep."

"What was his motive?"

"You see," said Lorne, "I have the ability to read minds. Not ordinarily—I couldn't tell you what you're thinking right now—but I can read the mind of someone who's singing. What I didn't know is that Oswald has the ability to tell when his mind is being read."

"He isn't an alien, too, is he?"

Lorne hesitated before answering. "Not so far as I know. I don't suppose that you believe humans have such abilities, but I know it's possible."

"Could you read my mind if I sang?" asked Grissom.

"I suppose I could," replied Lorne, surprised by the suggestion.

Grissom casually began singing the Irish ballad, "Danny Boy," in a surprisingly good tenor. Lorne was impressed by Grissom's ease as well as his understated but palpable feeling. He saw a great deal more about the man. More than he would need to tell him—which was good, because Lorne was reluctant to expose the darkest recesses even of a good man's soul. Grissom finished singing and looked at him expectantly.

"O.k.," Lorne began slowly. "You already suspected that Oswald has been robbing casinos. It's not a case you've been actively working on, because he never tried to kill anyone before." Before continuing, Lorne looked at Grissom's face, which was a blank without any telltale reaction. "You are a man who believes strongly that what you do is a high calling. You're called to right wrongs, but you are most comfortable behind a mask of pure reason. You are, paradoxically, an innocent spirit. This puts you in danger sometimes, because, although you are mature and wise, you also have the curiosity and trust of a child.

"You feel passionately about the people you work with, and you respect them, but you are afraid to tell them how you feel. At the same time, you are often puzzled by their unexpected feelings toward you." Lorne paused.

"Anything else?" Grissom asked.

"Only that you don't seem like a man who would log as many hours as you do on the rollercoaster at New York, New York. They ought to make you an honorary safety inspector."

Grissom finally showed a reaction in that his eyes widened a bit. "What about the future?" he asked. "Can you see what I'm going to do, the way you did with Oswald?"

Lorne took a breath. "I see that you will soon be in danger because of your desire to  
help someone. You'll be in a dark place and travelling. That's all I know," said Lorne.

Grissom looked thoughtful. "You are very right about one thing," he finally said. "We did already suspect Oswald. Now I'll tell you what else I know," said Grissom. He went over to the TV. Lorne had not noticed when he entered the room this time that there was a DVD player connected to the TV that had not been there before. Grissom raised a remote and turned it on. "These are security videos from the hotel," he told Lorne. Lorne saw a picture of a busy hotel corridor. "Now, I'll slow it down," Grissom said pressing another button. The screen became a series of still images. The movements of hotel patrons and personnel changed only slightly with each frame.

"What are we looking at?" asked Lorne. "I'm not sure... Oh, hello."

Grissom brightened. "You see that shadow?"

"What the heck is that?"

"I don't know," said Grissom, "but if it is an actual moving object, it must be travelling at a speed of more than 700 kilometers an hour—weaving in and out of foot traffic without ever bumping into anything. I have something else, too." Grissom picked up a piece of paper. It was blank except for the imprint of CaesarsPalace with the hotel's address and phone numbers in the upper right corner. It came from the same kind of stationery pad on the desk in every room in the hotel.

"What is it," asked Lorne.

"It's from Oswald's room. I realize that it looks blank, but we analyzed it and found the faint impression of the words 'Abracadabra' and 'Book of Celerus'. Do either of those words mean anything to you?"

"No," said Lorne. He felt the back of the paper, but there were no tell-tale ridges of the kind he would have expected if the original sheet on the pad that Oswald wrote on had only been one or two sheets above this one.

As if he knew what Lorne was thinking, Grissom explained that Oswald must have taken several of the sheets, between the one he wrote on and this sheet, in an effort to prevent someone from reading his note the old fashioned way—by rubbing the edge of a pencil over the impressions on the subsequent sheets. "We have a device that can scan for faint impressions fifty sheets beneath the one he wrote on," Grissom said.

* * *

Andreas growled and the brunette screamed as he hurled her into Justine's path. The din of the casino masked both of these sounds.

Justine side-stepped the brunette but caught her by the wrist with her left hand while pointing the crossbow at Andreas with her right. Momentarily, Justine lost her balance. Her shot went wild, the dart missing Andreas and lodging among the leaves atop the potted plant. Andreas took this opportunity to knock the weapon from her hand. Justine grabbed a stake from her bandolier, but Andreas laid into her with a right cross to the jaw. Justine staggered backward but held on to the stake.

Andreas then seized both of her wrists, forcing her to drop the stake and pushing her backwards, hard. She grasped his wrists in turn and used his momentum to lead him toward her. She lifted both feet, placing one foot against his groin and the other leg straightened between his knees. Then she let herself fall backward, keeping her head tucked toward him. All of this took a fraction of a second and then Justine's back hit the floor. She pushed up against his groin with all of her might and watched him sail head over heels through the air above her. With a crash so loud that it should have been heard above the cacophony of casino bells and boisterous voices below, Andreas landed against the balcony, the impact of his body leaving a fissure from floor to rail.

Andreas quickly recovered. Furious now, he charged Justine. She, too, had recovered and assumed a fighting stance. Before Andreas could lay a hand on her, she buried her stake deep in the vampire's chest. His startled face turned to ash and the rest of his body followed suit.

Justine looked over her shoulder at the brunette cowering in the doorway of the abandoned shop. Quickly Justine put away her stakes and picked up the crossbow.

"Come on," she said. "You'd better get away from here unless you want people asking you a lot of questions you can't answer. And, by the way, next time you pick up a guy, at least make sure he's human."


	4. Chapter 4

Riddle Me

Grissom and Lorne stood on the spot in the lobby where Lorne had agreed to meet Andreas. Grissom had just gotten off his cell phone, warning Captain Brass that Oswald was probably going to rob Caesars tonight. Lorne had not really listened. He finally had on his own clothes, which meant a conservative (for Lorne), shiny blue suit. Now he looked at his Rolodex. "He's way late," he said.

"Is he usually?" asked Grissom, putting away his cell phone.

"I don't know. I just met him."

"Which way did he go?"

Lorne showed Grissom through the concourse. "I don't see how we can find him," Lorne said. "Like looking for a needle in a haystack, not to coin a phrase."

"Just a moment," said Grissom. He went up to a well-coifed, middle-aged man in a sport coat, whom Lorne took to be a tourist. "Hello, Mike," said Grissom. "I want you to meet a friend of mine, Lorne. We're looking for a friend of his who might have come this way an hour or so ago. Lorne, why don't you describe Andreas to Mike?"

"Well, he's tall, thin, but with wide shoulders. He's casually dressed in a brown leather vest, has long, dark brown hair..."

"And piercing dark eyes," Mike stated.

"You remember him?"

"Mike doesn't miss much," said Grissom with a little smile.

"I couldn't forget," continued Mike. "I thought to myself, 'That egg is a smooth operator with the ladies', if you know what I mean."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"Why that fella came in here alone, but he went in that gift shop there and came out ten minutes later with a beautiful brunette on his arm. And they were pretty hot 'n' heavy."

"Where'd they go?" asked Grissom.

"Over toward the casino," replied Mike.

"Notice anything else?" asked Lorne uneasily.

"Like what?"

"Anything."

"Well, your friend don't carry a billfold," said Mike.

"So?" asked Lorne.

"It's just a professional observation," explained Mike.

"I don't understand," said Lorne. "What profession is that?"

Mike paid Lorne a side-long glance before turning to Grissom. "Your friend ain't too swift on the uptake, is he?"

Grissom explained, "Mike is one of our city's strolling ombudsmen who make sure people don't lose _all_ of their money gambling."

"Hey, Mr. Grissom, I like that one," Mike chuckled. He eyed Lorne for a brief moment before turning earnestly to Grissom. "So, do I get a reward for helping you out?"

"In a way, Mike, yes. I'm going to tell you something, but I want you to keep it under your hat."

"Sure thing."

"Something could be going down here tonight. I can't tell you what. If it happens you'll hear all about it tomorrow." Grissom glanced at Lorne before continuing. "Within the hour, this place will probably be crawling with police, both plainclothes and uniformed. You probably don't want to be here for that."

"Geez, thanks for the tip. I think I'll bid you gentlemen good evening and be on my way. Wasn't that good a night anyway." The pickpocket briskly walked away.

"Gil, should we be checking to see if we still have our personal effects?"

"Don't bother. Mike is the last of a dying breed. He would never take from someone who had seen his face."

For a moment, Lorne wondered whether that was supposed to be virtuous or merely canny, but he had something else on his mind. "Gil, I've got to tell you something that I'm sure you're going to hate to hear as much as I'm going to hate telling you. Andreas is a, uh, well, he's a kind of alien, too." He saw Grissom raise an eyebrow. "Andreas isn't like me."

"You mean, he isn't here for the music?"

"You could say that."

"Spit it out Lorne, I won't bite."

"Well, it's funny you should use that particular expression, because, you see, Andreas does bite. He bites people. In fact, you could say that Andreas comes from a whole species of Hannibal Lectors."

Grissom's eyes went wide. "You mean a serial killer is loose in this hotel? That brunette could be his next victim—or his most recent. I wish you'd mentioned this to me before."

"Well, I guess I was hoping that he would control his impulses since he said he was here to look for Oswald."

"Looks like he got side tracked. Come on."

"Where to?"

"To follow the only lead we have."

As they approach the casino the constant sound of bells going off became deafening. Grissom had to shout into the ear of a liveried casino employee in order to be heard. He showed the man his badge at the same time.

"No," the man said, "I haven't seen a tall man with long dark hair in here today. To tell the truth, I thought somebody must've called you here because of the commotion on the upper tier about twenty minutes ago."

"Commotion?" Grissom said. "Can somebody show me where?"

"Sure, come with me." The man, an off-duty black jack dealer named Phil, led them up a staircase. The noise of the casino diminished a little as they moved past shops in the direction of the hotel lobby. They did not go far before the tremendous crack on the balcony became obvious.

"This just happened twenty minutes ago?" asked Grissom. "It must have made a tremendous noise."

"Loud enough to distract the people down below, and that's hard to do."

"Did you see anyone come down afterward?" Grissom asked.

"Not me."

"One more thing. You said you didn't see anyone who fit that description _today_. See anybody like that before today?"

"Come to think of it, there was somebody in here yesterday who did fit that description, and, you know, he might have even come up here. I remember seeing him on the staircase we just climbed."

"Thanks for your help, Phil. Take my card, and please don't hesitate to call me anytime if you remember anything or see anything else suspicious. It doesn't have to be related to this or even make any sense."

After Phil left them, Grissom took in the scene. He got down on the floor to examine the apron in front of the shop door. He inspected the crack in the balcony. Using his own stride, he measured the distance from it to the potted plant. He studied scuffmarks on the floor. Finally, he hunkered down at a spot in the middle of the walkway, took out a glassine baggy and a small paper envelope. Using the envelope as a scoop, he scraped up a small amount of something dark from the floor and deposited it in the baggy. He carefully sealed the baggy and pocketed it.

When Grissom briefly looked at Lorne, the Pylean saw a deeply furrowed brow above an equally deep frown; but Lorne realized that Grissom was far from unhappy. This was a man who lived to solve puzzles, and this was a monumental riddle for him. Lorne was not sure what had happened, but he believed it would crack Grissom's weltanschauung wide open—if he ever figured it out.

In the next moment, Grissom went for the potted plant. He climbed onto the rim of the pot so he could reach its thicket of leaves near the top. He seemed to be feeling for something.

"What's up with the palm tree?" asked Lorne.

"Actually," said Grissom, grunting as he tugged at something with his one hand as he hugged the trunk with his other, "it's not a palm tree. It's a cycad—a _Cycas revoluta_, to be exact. Some people call it a Sago Palm, but it isn't related to the palm at all." When he climbed down he was holding the sharpened wooden dart that had flown wildly from Justine's crossbow.

Lorne let out an involuntary gasp as he realized the significance. "Oh, my Gosh, Gil. I think I know what might have happened." Lorne looked at Grissom expecting him to ask a question, but the criminalist only cocked his head attentively. "I think Oswald must have killed Andreas with a crossbow—with a wooden dart. That's one of the few ways that, uh, people from Andreas' planet can be killed."

"With a sharp wooden dart?"

"Yes."

"But not beheading."

"Well, actually, that _would_ work on Andreas. Just not on me."


	5. Chapter 5

Magick Hour

"Do you have an idea about where to start, partner?" asked Grissom when they were back in the lobby.

Lorne was moved that Grissom had called him "partner," but did not mention it. "I have one or two," Lorne said, grabbing a phone book and handing it to Grissom. "Look up any businesses called 'Abracadabra'."

Grissom opened the book and ran his finger down and up the columns of the white pages. Before long, he gave a start, and his finger stopped on the page. "There are two of them: 'Abracadabra Hotel and Casino' and 'Abracadabra Magic and Occult Bookshop'. Of course, it's the book shop—'The Book of Celerus'."

Grissom and Lorne entered the Abracadabra twenty minutes later. It was an unassuming shop in a run down neighborhood. The interior was surprisingly well-lit and clean in spite of an enormous collection of mostly old books lining the walls and piled on tables in the middle of the room. A stooped, white-haired old man stood behind the counter that looked as if it used to be a bar in a western saloon.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked the proprietor in a soft European accent.

"I hope you can," said Grissom. "I'm looking for a particular book. I wonder if you've ever heard of the 'Book of Celerus'."

The man blanched. "I am not sure I have ever heard of such a book," he said without conviction.

Grissom flashed his badge in the man's face. "What is your name?" he demanded.

"Alois Stoffel," he stammered, "but I've done nothing wrong. I'm only a bookseller—und a law-abiding taxpayer."

"Then you won't mind telling us about a customer who _has_ broken the law: Orlando Oswald."

"I am afraid I don't know the name of every one of my customers."

"But you couldn't forget this one. He bought the 'Book of Celerus', and that title, alone, seems to make you nervous."

"I did nothing wrong in selling a book," Stoffel protested.

"Then you won't mind confirming that Oswald purchased a copy from you," pressed Grissom.

Stoffel hung his head for a moment before nodding slowly. "I sold him the book, yes, but you must believe me—I had no idea beforehand of what he meant to do with it."

"So when did you realize what he was doing?"

"I could not stop him," Stoffel pleaded. "Don't you see? He is very powerful. No one could oppose him lightly. Just for talking to you now, my life is in danger!" Stoffel's eyes flashed with fear as his voice rose. "Don't you see? He could be anywhere—even here, now!" Breaking off, the old man looked wildly from side to side.

"Why don't you calm down and tell us just what the 'Book of Celerus' is and why Orlando wanted it."

Stoffel's eyes narrowed. "You mean you don't know?"

"He may not, but I have a pretty good idea," said Lorne, stepping up to the counter. "Why don't you just start confirming my suspicions before I get testy."

"What are you," asked Stoffel, fully appreciating Lorne's green and horny aspect for the first time.

"Never you mind," said Lorne. "Just keep in mind that there are two ways to spill your guts: one is metaphorical and the other isn't."

"You are the police," said Stoffel to Grissom. "You must protect me from this demon."

"Give me a reason," said Grissom.

With a sigh of defeat, Stoffel said, "Celerus was a Renaissance sorcerer. No one knows his real name or where he came from. Some say that he was already hundreds of years old when he appeared in my native Vienna. He was very powerful and inspired great fear among some noblemen, but he ingratiated himself with the Emperor and was welcomed at court. He is said to have cast spells that insured victory over the Turks in many battles.

"The trick that made him most famous was the assassination of the Turkish vizier who was their greatest commander. Celerus somehow crept past the Janissaries, who were the finest bodyguards on two continents—who had been loaned to the vizier by the Sultan'himself—and he cut off the vizier's head while he slept. Indeed, two completely contradictory stories about the vizier's death and decapitation arose. The secret behind Celerus' feat was never revealed, except that he was said to have written it in a book—in code.

"The Emperor soon became afraid that if Celerus could assassinate a well-guarded Turkish vizier, he could kill the Emperor as well, so he ordered Celerus arrested; but Celerus found out about this and fled, never to be heard from again. His book also vanished until early in the twentieth century. It has had several owners, but none of them has been able to break the code."

"How did you get the book?" asked Grissom.

"Oswald came to me with the knowledge that the last owner had recently died, and he offered me any amount of money if I would buy it for him. This proved to be easy enough. The executor of the estate had no idea of the book's true value."

"And just what is the value," asked Lorne, "assuming someone could break the code and read it?"

"Oh, make no mistake," said Stoffel. "Orlando Oswald..."

Suddenly, Lorne's vision blurred and he felt as if he had been spun around in a circle until dizzy. The next that he knew, he felt his arms constricted and he looked down to see a rope wound around his arms and chest. His hands were bound to each other with a separate cord. He looked up just in time to see Orlando Oswald admiring this handiwork. They were so close to each other that Lorne could see the few specks of lint on Oswald's black wool sport coat. The comic's latex-gloved hands were stretched toward Lorne as if Oswald's touch had somehow awakened the Pylean from a mystical sleep.

Lorne looked down and saw that Stoffel lay on the floor, grasping with his fingertips at a cord around his neck. His face had turned purple. His eyes bulged. His tongue lolled from his mouth. He seemed a portrait of impotent struggle—yet he was perfectly still. With horror, Lorne realized that he was witnessing a man's moment of death—only it was frozen as if in eternity. Lorne looked around again and realized that Gil Grissom was nowhere to be seen.

"Pardon the cliché, but I really don't think you can get away with this," said Lorne. "The police are waiting for you at Caesars."

"I'll be in and out before they know it," said Oswald. "While I escape, you'll be answering questions like, 'What are your fingerprints doing all over the scene of Mr. Stoffel's murder?', and 'What did you do to Mr. Grissom?'" Oswald absently picked at the lint on his coat while he talked."

"What _did_ happen to Grissom?" Lorne demanded.

Oswald smiled. "I'll show you."

He got behind Lorne and pushed him out the door. The street seemed utterly silent. The traffic light was green, yet cars and pedestrians alike seemed stock-still. The air did not move at all. Lorne had the eerie impression of being enclosed, as if on a Hollywood soundstage instead of in the real world.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" said Oswald, not really asking a question. "The first time I experienced the speed, I gawked at my surroundings, too, but we don't have time for that." He laughed as if at a joke he had made. "Well, time is relative," he said. "Still, even with the spell of Celerus, there are certain limits." Their car was parked in front of the shop where they had left it, but it was empty. Grissom was nowhere in sight. Lorne looked at Oswald curiously. Oswald smiled again.

"I brought him, ah, up to speed—ha ha, that's a good one—and I put him in the trunk before I came back for you. If you value your friend's life, you'll keep your mouth shut until I've released him." Oswald brought Lorne over to the trunk and rapped on it twice. Lorne heard a muffled voice from inside. It sounded like "Help!" Lorne understood that Grissom was probably both bound and gagged.

"How do I know you won't kill him anyway?" asked Lorne.

"You don't, but if I _have_ to kill him I certainly will."

Oswald opened the car door on the passenger's side with surprising difficulty. It was as though the door was several times its usual weight. He put Lorne in and gagged him before making him crouch down and covering him with a blanket. Before starting the car, Oswald chanted in order to remove the spell. When he had finished and put his hands on the wheel, the world outside of the car suddenly burst into noisy motion. Other cars honked their horns. Their own car lurched into traffic but soon came to a halt. The traffic light must have turned red, Lorne thought. The cars around them screeched to a halt and chattering pedestrians could be heard as they crossed the street in front of Oswald and Lorne.

As the pedestrians went by, none of them had any reason to pay attention to the car with the kidnapped Pylean under a blanket on the front seat. As far the world was concerned, nothing was amiss.

"When we arrive at Caesars," explained Oswald, "I'll recast the spell, but you and Mr. Grissom won't be in on it this time."

Lorne struggled with his bonds as surreptitiously as possible. He made some progress, but, especially if he was cramped on his side, he knew it would take too much time to free himself—and time was something he would not have once the spell was cast again.

Finally, Oswald stopped the car. With a piece of good luck, Lorne found himself being lifted into a sitting position and the blanket was removed. Through the window, he saw CaesarsPalace across the boulevard. Oswald closed his eyes and began chanting in what sounded to Lorne like Latin—seemingly the favorite language for casting spells in this dimension. Again, as surreptitiously as he could, Lorne tried to free his hands and loosen the ropes around his arms and torso. At the same time, recalling that Oswald touched him to bring him "up to speed," Lorne tried sliding closer and leaning toward the sorcerer. Suddenly, the world lurched forward but just as abruptly seemed to come up short. Lorne, unsure of what had just happened, leaned away from Oswald and tried to be still.

Oswald looked around and smiled at Lorne. He checked his watch and then brushed lint off the arms of his coat and said, "Sometimes the magic works; sometimes it doesn't. I do have to be careful not to use the spell too many times a day or it becomes more difficult to cast. Don't worry, though. I have enough juice left for one more go." Closing his eyes again, he went back to the beginning of the spell. As Oswald came to its end, Lorne leaned close enough to touch his coattails. With a whoosh, the world around them seemed to shift to a slower speed. Lorne felt as if gravity were dragging down the car and all of its contents with the exception of Oswald and Lorne. Outside the windows, the speeding cars had come to a dead halt.

Lorne tried to pretend to be part of this heavy, frozen world. He looked straight ahead and sat stock-still. Oswald turned toward him, staring a long time—or so it seemed to the Pylean who held his breath. Oswald at last reached over and flicked a speck of lint from Lorne's lapel. The sorcerer then forced open the driver's-side door and got out.

While he tried to free his hands, Lorne let his eyes follow Oswald across the boulevard. The traffic light ahead was green but the teeming traffic was so still that the sorcerer ambled between cars at leisure. When Oswald reached the other side, Lorne turned his head to get a good look. As he watched the sorcerer disappear into the hotel, Lorne struggled in earnest and at last loosened the ropes. He ungagged himself, clambered over to the driver's side, and reached for the lever that would pop the trunk open. The lever gave with a little difficulty, but there was no sound of the trunk opening.

Lorne opened the door with such difficulty that he thought it had gained a ton—or, perhaps, it was as if its hinges had accumulated an inch of solid rust in a very short time. After struggling out of the car, he walked to the rear and tried opening the trunk. It hardly gave at all. While taking a breath between efforts, Lorne noticed a continuous noise that sounded like metal sliding over metal. It came from the trunk. Lorne realized that the latch of the trunk had not finished popping. How long would he have to wait until the trunk opened?, he thought. He then wondered how Oswald could possibly open a vault under these conditions. It then struck him that Oswald did not intend to open the vault himself. His plan obviously depended upon knowing what time the vault was opened for the daily count. He intended to slip in and out while the door was open.

Finally, the latch stopped sliding, and Lorne was able to open the trunk, though it felt as if he were trying to lift the whole car. Inside, Grissom was bound and gagged just as Lorne had expected. He lay on his side in the fetal position, his clothes rumpled and beads of sweat standing out on his face. He was as motionless as a wax statue. Lorne soon abandoned all efforts to lift Grissom's dead weight from the trunk, but he found a small folding knife in Grissom's pocket and was at least able to cut away the bonds and remove the gag.

Lorne then turned toward the hotel and began weaving among the cars that seemed to be planted in rows, facing south on one side of boulevard and north on the other. He tried to avoid the eerie, unseeing eyes of the drivers and passengers as he passed them. Once on the opposite sidewalk, he hurried into the hotel and made his way toward the casino.

As he went, he saw people frozen in every imaginable position. Waiters were offering drinks to patrons who reached but never touched the glasses. Some lovers were eternally about to embrace while others were stuck in statue-like embraces. Gamblers were sitting immobile in front of slot machines and card tables, which seemed normal except that the drums with pictures of fruit in the machines did not spin, and each black jack dealer was caught in the act of dealing only to one player. Throughout, Lorne noticed an odd clicking sound that grew louder as he moved through the hotel toward the casino. There were long spaces between the sounds. He concluded that these clicks were people's voices forming consonants. He then began to notice the low, rushing, white noise of vowel sounds in between the clicks. As he reached the casino, however, these clicks were overwhelmed by long bell tones. No sooner did one begin to die away than another rose in a continuous drone.

Lorne looked for the way to the vault. It was not difficult to find. He followed a trail of armed security officers, Las Vegas police officers and sheriff's deputies accompanying liveried employees who were pushing carts laden with metal boxes and canvas sacks. As these people strained with their burdens, the security and law officers seemed to watch every approach, but from Lorne's point of view they saw nothing. On the way, he passed another team of three maintenance people, a man and two women, who were on their way in the opposite direction. They pushed a cart with plaster, lumber, tools and a large can of glue. Lorne glanced at the clipboard of one of the women and saw that they had a work order to repair the balustrade that had been broken during the fight in which Andreas had been slain.

Lorne reached the open vault and stealthily peered inside to find Oswald happily collecting money and other valuables, filling two large suitcases. Lorne backed away just before Oswald turned to glance in his direction. Looking around, Lorne noticed the maintenance team, seemingly on an endless journey toward the service elevators. Lorne ran as quietly as he could toward them.

It was, of course, no time at all before Oswald emerged from the vault with his loot-filled suitcases weighing down each arm, but it had seemed like ten minutes had passed from Oswald and Lorne's perspective. The sorcerer took only two steps before he stopped and looked down at his feet. With each step, the sole of each shoe lifted several long strings of translucent glue off the floor. He was wading through a large pool where Lorne, using a wooden lathe as a tool, had spread out the glue in front of the vault. Oswald looked up and saw Lorne admiring his own handiwork.

"You miserable tower of lime Jell-O!" Oswald cried. At the same time, he was losing his grip on his suitcases, dropping one into the glue so that he had to set down the other in order to pull the first one out. "When I get my hands on you, I'll send you to a dimension where they'll roast you over a spit for eternity!"

"Gee," said Lorne. "Isn't that a long-winded way of telling me to go to hell?" With that, he turned and walked away. He did not want to explain his own presence to the police when the spell wore off.

Outside, Lorne started toward the car, where he could see that the trunk was still open. He had reached the halfway point in crossing the boulevard before the world around him seemed to lurch as if an earthquake had struck. Lorne put out his arm to brace himself against the hood of a car, but it moved rapidly by so that he nearly spun around and toppled over. He managed to draw back just before he fell into the path of the now speeding traffic.

"Hey! What's the matter with you? You drunk?" called a motorist. Lorne regained his bearings, focusing on the sedan across the street. He managed to jaywalk across the southbound traffic lane and reach the car just in time to see Gil Grissom climbing out of the trunk. The human sat on the rear bumper and rubbed the perspiration from his face before looking up to see Lorne standing in front of him.

"What the hell happened?" asked Grissom.

"Why don't we go inside the casino so I can show you?" said Lorne.


	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue

Back at the department, Grissom smoothed things over with everyone including Brass and Dr. Robbins. They accepted that when someone has a near-death experience they can be excused for stealing the coroner's badge, car and camel hair coat. Grissom also vouched for Lorne's innocence in the Stoffel murder and convinced everyone that Oswald had done it. Lorne sat quietly on a thinly padded, metal frame couch and tried blending into the rest of the institutional furniture while he listened to Grissom and Brass.

"Oswald can't get far," said Brass. "I put out a state and federal BOLO on him."

"He's a clever man, though," said Grissom, "even if he did leave a bit of a trail at the crime scene."

Warrick Brown began laughing again. He was trying to tell everyone who came into the room about the scene at the casino. The image of Oswald's shoes stuck to the floor next to one of the suitcases full of loot—which was lying on its side and also stuck to the floor—sent him into paroxysms every time. "And what really gets me," said Brown, hoarse with laughter, "are the socks stuck to the edge of the pool of glue. Ha, ha! Not that I'm complaining, Lorne, but if you'd made that pool of glue just a little wider, he never would have escaped."

As Warrick continued laughing, Catherine Willows, the latest victim of Warrick's recounting, smiled uncomfortably at Lorne. Lorne smiled back at her. He imagined that she rarely had occasion to exchange looks of any kind with a person whose murder she had been investigating the previous day.

"I don't see how this case could get any stranger," said Brass.

Just then, a young man wearing a lab smock came up to them.

"Mr. Grissom, I analyzed that sample you gave me."

"What did you find, Greg?"

"I hope you can come up with a better explanation than I can," began Greg. "The sample contains human ashes. You found these at Caesars?"

"Yes."

"Because it's as if somebody took a very old corpse—preserved probably for a century or more—and then they burned it within the past twenty-four hours."

"Thanks, Greg," said Grissom. Lorne was surprised by how calmly Grissom was taking this information.

"What's that about?" asked Brass.

"Just one of the many bizarre aspects of the case," Grissom answered. "Did you find out anything about that dancer at the Kitty Box?"

"Justine? Yeah, she doesn't work there anymore."

Lorne jumped off of the couch. "What? I saw her there last night!" he protested.

"She was there to pick up her paycheck."

"Present whereabouts unknown?" asked Grissom.

"As a matter of fact, last evening, a woman fitting her description but using the name—" Brass consulted his notepad—"'Constance Holtz' got on a bus with a ticket for Denver."

"That's incredible," said Lorne.

"You think she's in on the robbery?" Brass asked Grissom.

"No, I'm beginning to realize that what's going on around here is a lot more complicated than that."

Just then, a man in the uniform of a U.S. Air Force officer entered the room. His compact body moved briskly and deliberately. "I'm here to see Gil Grissom," he announced.

Grissom and Lorne exchanged glances. "Ah, Colonel McNutt," said Grissom, stepping forward to offer his hand.

McNutt shook hands as he asked, "Can we talk in front of these people?"

Grissom glanced at everyone. "They already know about every aspect of this case."

McNutt frowned, but went on. "Where is the alien?"

Grissom turned to look at a worried Lorne before answering. "I'm afraid the evidence of alien life slipped through our fingers."

"Slipped through your fingers?" cried McNutt. "How did that happen? In the Air Force, we don't let things like that just slip through our fingers!"

"I suppose not," said Grissom, "but we're civilians, not military. When we civilians find evidence of alien life, it always gets away from us in one way or another. We just can't nail it down the way you guys can."

"That's true," said McNutt, swelling with pride.

"Sorry to have wasted you time," said Grissom.

"Well," said McNutt, "I always wanted to see this forensics unit anyway. I've heard so much about it. Could you introduce me to your people?"

The colonel was introduced to Brass, Willows, Warrick and Greg. "And this," said Grissom, "is Mr. Lorne, a special consultant who has just helped us break an important case."

McNutt gave Lorne a particularly enthusiastic handshake and said, "Glad to meet you."

"Likewise, I'm sure," replied Lorne.

* * *

As Grissom walked Lorne out of the building, he said, "I hope your second visit to the CSI unit has been more pleasant than your first."

"A definite improvement," replied Lorne.

Grissom and Lorne were silent for a moment. "Just one thing is nagging me," Grissom said at last. "Are all of the people from Andreas's planet vampires?"

"You know about vampires?" Lorne asked in surprise.

"Shhh," said Grissom. He glanced left and right. "Every criminalist worth his salt has seen the fang marks, but I'd never seen the dust of a slain vampire before—only read about it."

"What can I say?" Lorne sighed. "You got me." But Grissom was not finished surprising him.

"And you aren't an alien either, are you?"

"No," said Lorne.

"'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophies'," Grissom quoted. The two paused while Lorne thought about how much he should tell.

"Pylea exists," Lorne said finally. "But it is not a planet. It's one of many parallel dimensions."

"And you really came here because you like the music?"

"That's true. And I really do sing," said Lorne.

"And you're good?"

"At least as good as you are, Gil. In fact, we should sing a duet sometime."

"Why not now?" asked Grissom.

"Why not?" Lorne conceded.

And the two new friends walked along the street singing "Danny Boy" in unison as the dawn got as close as it ever does to overtaking the glittering lights of Las Vegas.

THE END

In memory of M. Sgt. D. Brian Correia (USAF-ret.), who was a security guard at Bally's Resort and Casino, and fed me one of the lines in this story while we were at Caesar's.


End file.
